


Fragments of a Man On Paper

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Heavily medicated epistolary fragments from the pen of Fox Mulder.





	Fragments of a Man On Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Fragments of a Man on Paper by A. Leigh-Anne Childe

30 Dec 1997

Fragments of a Man on Paper  
by A. Leigh-Anne Childe ()

Mulder/Skinner. Slash premise. An associated piece along the 'Celebration' story line. Adult words--rating R, maybe. Archive anywhere. These guys are the slaves of He-Ra, the great Sun God, incarnated here on earth as Chris Carter. I don't think this should be too hard to follow, but I'm heavily medicated right now and could be wrong, so for lucidity's sake, let me say that this is a small collection of epistolary fragments from the pen of Fox Mulder.   
 

* * *

. . .or Bugs Bunny? Let me know. So I was lying there, appreciating very much the philosophy of departmental waste reduction management. Can't tell you how glad I am you sent me to this seminar. I've been thinking--you know, we could cut down on a lot of excessively produced energy and reduce our contribution to global warming if we only did the wild thing once a week. Once a month? Annually would reduce our emissions to a minimum. Then again, from another point of view, we could cut back a lot more unnecessary energy, sound and fury signifying nothing, just by never leaving bed again. I'm leaning more toward option two myself. Let me know your thoughts. I'm sending you a. . .

*

. . .wonder why I write. And does it seem redundant to you when you've just heard my voice? Then sometimes my body beats my words back, and you'll be reading one of my letters as we sit over breakfast. And you keep them in the *safe*, God, Walter. You marvel me. I was so sure it was the subversive homoeroticism, or blackmail potential as you somehow saw it. "Just proof against fire," you said, as if what else. What else? Lock this one away: you are my feu de joie, all guns firing, and maybe by time you translate this, I'll. . .

*

. . .glad to know that the proposed scenario of government-financed embryologists transplanting human fetuses into cows doesn't seem to be borne out by any evidence, at least not here in Bismarck. And no sightings of Rasputin, despite what the *Weekly World News* says. See-- I'm not always. . .

*

. . .hankering--don't laugh--to tour the sights of San Fran with you. We're not exactly the counter-cultural prototypes, I know. Woe betide the man who calls Walter Skinner a guppy, eh? It's not exactly our mecca, I suppose, but--you've been here, you must have some idea of how the zeitgeist blows on this strip of coast. We should come out for Halloween some year, immerse ourselves in the hairy nuns, the divas and the queens of May. Be good for us. I've been meaning to ask you, how do you feel about body piercings, because I saw this guy, kind of inspiring. . .

*

. . .time since my youthful poetic urges struck with vatic force. But tell me what you think--

     Now here on Nofolk's uninspired edge  
     the Christmas light-lines enweb the deciduated  
     husks of smallish trees and articulate  
     Marriot to Nations Bank across from which  
     unbridged the iceless wrinkled harbor banks its boats  
     in lucid stitches. . .

That's all I've got. Norfolk in winter; this is a bleak place. Bleak case. Not much of a city. Another body this morning, bound up in police tape. Ironical comment on our times? I've been thinking something though about the way the legs are bound, almost to form one leg, and just one foot on each victim is cut off, leaving a figure like a cydippe. I have no clue what this means, but if memory serves there's some connection to Hermes, among other things the guide of the dead. Need to have Blankenship fax me some skinny on this. Oops! Business talk. Let me tell you what I'm wearing. . .

*

. . .like a very pissed, pink, wet-nosed rabbit. Don't ever tell her I told you. She'd flay me. She's honking more like a goose. I can hear her from the room next door. Honk honk. You may be sure I'm wrapping this ******* [previous word crossed out] case up soon. It defies even the longest odds we have two cases in a year in North Dakota. Or maybe not. You should see what I'm seeing. I'm trying to encourage the local populace to secede from the union. Summer heat, sinuses, mosquito*s ['e' crossed out with an uncertain looking pencil mark], flat tire, Scully ragging it at both ends, an ingrown hair, I won't say where, that hurts like a sonofabitch--I just want to put my head in the ice machine, but it's broken--questionable chicken dinner last night--Scully threw up and that was *before* she ate it, or decided not to, I mean. I think we're both going vegetarian. How do you feel about hummus, lover. . .

*

. . .thank god for that. You know the embarrassment, and she would probably just give me a clinical, measuring look. Even the great Wilt would wilt a bit under that regard. Don't know what's with me. Must be the heat. Can't stop thinking about you. My hand on the back of your neck pulling your mouth in--you unshaven and I can't decide what I want more, my cock in your mouth or yours in mine--I wouldn't have to choose, except we're doing this in a stalled elevator (don't snort-- feed my fantasy). I'll let you decide. You'd put me on my knees, I think. And I'm thinking about how much I can get in, trying for all of it. Doing it on a hotel bed would be fine, better even, with a broken air- conditioner and it takes four hours to come. Then we pass out. I think I'm going to call you. . .

*

. . .wonders if you spank me, I think. Don't worry, I leave her wondering. Though I'm sure she'd approve. That guy she mentioned, by the way, don't mention him. Kaput. She won't say, but I think he fondled too fast. I offered to beat him up, but she declined. I think you were right about not giving her a pack of batteries. Her sense of humor isn't always reliable, and I don't look good in gauze. Foot is better. You sounded like shit on the phone. When are you going to get your fax fixed--I hate scrounging for postage--what would Kimberly say about billets doux from yours truly--there's always encryption, but. . .

*

. . .what you said about the deed. I don't know why I blew you off. Don't worry, my salaried hours are spent in the proper pursuit of justice. (My phantom wears Nikes, Scully says.) But after I got a good four hours in last night I thought a while about your offer. I hope you know it's not a question of commitment. Committal, now. . .just kidding. I think I'm going to retire that joke. Speaking of which, I guess-- [last five words scratched out]

*

. . .the consistency of glue. I won't describe the pie. Remind me to add this to my list of truck-stop ratings--at the bottom. Gotta go. [...] It's later; we're here. Tried to call you, got the machine. Sound of your voice made me hard. [naughty drawing here] We're off to the gravesite tomorrow a.m. Heavy rain expected. Joy. Good to see Cooper again. Always nice to hook up with one's fellow pariahs, compare notes. Also to know I'm not the strangest dog in the pack--kid on the block. I have to love this guy--don't take that wrong--he has recently discovered himself to be the reincarnation of Berthold Schwarz, a fourteenth century German monk reputed to have invented gunpowder--we had an interesting conversation. I know you'd. . .

*

. . .quick note. Lobster traps--knew you'd appreciate that. No snow yet. I like this place. No desolation, just quietude. Think cottage--??? I'm closer to a decision. A change of pace is looking better all the time. [writing begins to get much tinier] Want a hausfrau? No windows, but I give great head. Will this slip past the postal censors, I wonder. . .love you. ..weekend likely. . .Fox

End.


End file.
